as he saunters up the tree-lined path
to meet you
he is smoking his
black rounded pipe
taking it in his hand
to speak his formal
but warm greeting
you walk with him on the outskirts of the town
and he comments on
just harvested crops
the nearly bare trees
the leaf strewn lawns
the black cleaned-up gardens
this is his favourite time
he says
a time of precipice
of being keenly aware of the knife edge
of beauty
between life and death
he tells you about the
long arcing turn of life
with sunshine and shadow
flash and haze
seeding and harvest
as he puffs the sweet tobacco
and you bathe in the aching beauty
of the moment
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